


swear to be overdramatic and true

by postfixrevolution



Series: twenty seconds, twenty years [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (it's from ingrid's father surprise surprise), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, minor language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 04:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: "Parents should care about their kids," Dorothea says, simple and resolute. "That includes wanting them to be happy living the life they want. If they can't do that onesimplething, then they aren't parents."Verdant green eyes flicker quizzically upward, catching Dorothea's own. Smiling wryly, Dorothea shrugs."That's the thing no one tells you. That you get a choice."
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Series: twenty seconds, twenty years [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540423
Comments: 12
Kudos: 162





	swear to be overdramatic and true

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from [lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BjZmE2gtdo) by taylor swift

Ingrid is swaddled in two separate blankets when Dorothea comes home. The first thing her girlfriend does is shudder at the chill in their apartment.

"Ingrid," she grimaces, "why is it so _ cold _ in here?" 

Ingrid's gaze flickers up to see the pout on Dorothea's lips, sea green eyes crinkled at the corners as she narrows her eyes in the direction of the thermostat. Her mascara is noticeably smudged at the corners, proof of a few tired eye-rubs too many, and the sight prompts Ingrid to sit up straighter. Dorothea has never been one to show tiredness in the visible shadow of bags beneath her eyes—be it by virtue of a carefully measured night's sleep or a skilled, makeup-wielding hand—but there's no mistaking the way her bangs are deflated in a way only agitated fingers running through them could mimic. Ingrid sheds her blankets immediately, barely suppressing a shudder at the chill that eagerly replaces them.

"I'll turn on the heater." The cold of their wooden floors bleeds through the worn fabric of her socks when she stands, and Ingrid writes a mental note to buy new ones before winter comes any further into swing. "Long day at work?"

Dorothea hums in confirmation, running fingers through her disheveled bangs as she pads down in the direction of their bedroom.

"Like you wouldn't _ believe_. Tech week just brings out the worst in people." From down the hall, Ingrid can hear her enter their bedroom and start shuffling through their drawers, doubtlessly looking to shed her work clothes and makeup as quickly as she can. For all that Dorothea adores the routine of artfully applying her makeup every morning—gaze half on her mirror and half on Ingrid, watching the blonde braid her hair with a lazy, lidded half-smile—Ingrid knows more than anyone how much Dorothea is eager to shed it by the day's end. 

Just like putting it on, wiping the stuff away is almost a ritual all its own. On languid summer evenings, when Ingrid has spent her free days sprawled across their queen-size with another historical fantasy epic, Dorothea will come home and waste no time in curling up against her as she wipes her makeup off idly, throwing the sheet away before returning to nap in the sunset-gold quiet of their bedroom, head cushioned against the small of Ingrid's back. 

She once confessed, voice heavy with sleep and summer heat, that taking her makeup off in Ingrid's presence made her feel safe, enveloped in the steady reminder that there was someone who loved her even without her lovely, painted mask. Ingrid could only find the words to tell her that she wouldn't stop loving her just because she stopped wearing makeup, but not the right ones to tell Dorothea that she is always beautiful—in mind and body and every minor, breathtaking crack that only proved her resilience and made her one-of-a-kind. She never had the chance to tell her girlfriend that again, but she tried to put the message into every meaningful stare, watching Dorothea carefully wipe her makeup away with an intensity that made the singer flush red in the vanity mirror, muttering something about there being better things to stare at. Those remarks only ever made Ingrid want to stare even more.

When Dorothea pads back into the living room, she is dressed in her warmest set of sleep clothes and Ingrid is settled back on the couch, having long since turned the heater on. Dorothea hums contentedly at the newfound warmth, meandering over to the kitchen as Ingrid pulls her dual blankets back around herself. She hears a loud series of rustling before Dorothea calls out to her. Ingrid turns back toward the kitchen to find the brunette examining a new bottle of wine, a curious arch to her immaculately shaped brows. 

"It's unlike you to throw away such nice wine, Ingrid," she notes, turning the bottle idly in her hands. When her sea green eyes catch on the year proudly printed on the label, they widen enough for Ingrid to see from the living room. The frown that quickly follows it isn't missed, either. She places the bottle atop the counter before diving right back toward their trash can, a victorious _ "Ah-ha!" _ ringing across their apartment when she resurfaces with two halves of a torn paper. At that, Ingrid turns away. 

"I guess there's no need for me to explain if you've figured it out," she murmurs, sinking deeper into her blanketed cocoon. Dorothea sighs, papers crinkling as she lays them flat against the kitchen counter. Ingrid doesn't need to look to know that her girlfriend is scowling, because she always does when she reads the letters that Ingrid's father likes to send her, attached to fancy bottles of alcohol and filled with gleeful news of another rich, potential suitor.

It's far too short a pause for Dorothea to have finished reading, but the silence is broken when the girl crumples up the paper once more, throwing it huffily back into the trash. Ingrid registers more shuffling, mixed into the thud of closing cabinets and the gentle clink of glass, before Dorothea manifests at her side, two wine glasses and the opened bottle in hand. Ingrid wastes no time in unfolding her blankets, letting Dorothea sidle up comfortably beside her. 

"That man," she begins disdainfully, pouring two extremely generous portions of wine, "doesn't know how to take a fucking hint." When she pushes a glass at Ingrid, the blonde rolls her eyes fondly, but accepts it anyway. Dorothea drains half her glass in one dreg, fingers curled delicately around the stem and nose tilted primly upward. It's a lot of wine to drink at once, but she manages to make the feat look exceptionally graceful. "The only thing he's good for is his taste in booze," she decides. Ingrid snorts softly as she finishes the glass and pours herself another.

"That might be the kindest thing you've _ ever _ said about my father." 

Ingrid swirls her glass idly, breathing in the heavy scent of a finely aged bordeaux. She hadn't bothered to note the year before it was unceremoniously thrown in the trash, but the smooth lack of astringency suggests something along the vein of multiple decades in the making. When she thinks about how much it must have cost to buy it, all in an attempt to lure their wayward daughter back to a future of business-motivated marriages and nuclear-family domesticity, the sweetness of it quickly fades. Ingrid places her wine glass back on the table.

"Oh, don't let it bother you too much, Ingrid," Dorothea hums, laying her head atop Ingrid's shoulder. "Truth be told, if it were me, I would have stopped calling him my father years ago. You've always given him too much, even now. You're far too good," she murmurs, "without even trying."

"Is that what you think?" Ingrid chuckles ruefully, leaning her head against Dorothea's. "The constant pleas to return home and repair what they—what _ we _—used to have make it hard to feel that way. I still call him my father, but he...he still calls me his daughter, too."

Dorothea clicks her tongue, leaning forward to swap her empty glass with Ingrid's. She swirls it as she speaks, letting the heady scent of wine float up into the air.

"Well, he sure doesn't _ treat _ you like one, constantly trying to reel you in with food and sell you off like some kind of _ animal_. It's horrible, and it breaks my heart to see him do this to my Ingrid."

"You're being overdramatic, Dorothea." Ingrid rolls her eyes, unable to amusement that bleeds into her tone. "We just..." She sighs, lifting her head from atop Dorothea's own. "We didn't have much when I was younger. Even if things have gotten a little better since then, I think he's just afraid to lose it all again. That's something I can't quite blame him for."

Dorothea huffs as she sits up, knocking back the rest of Ingrid's abandoned wine.

"And being willing to lose a _ daughter _ before his own money is something I _ do _ blame him for." 

She says this as she says a lot of things: with a breathtaking, unshakable conviction. The weight of it is not lost on Ingrid, and neither is the way it takes her breath away just like it does every time. Dorothea is always beautiful, but nothing can match the tempest that rages in her sea-green eyes when she speaks what she believes in, impassioned and resolute. 

And Ingrid, for all her familial loyalty, can't help but agree. It's been years since she had moved out and cut financial ties, but her mother and father have never stopped being _ family _ in her mind, no matter how flawed. Dorothea knows more than anyone how hard it had been to leave—having been there with her in the immediate aftermath, barring the apartment door from Ingrid's furious parents herself—and has watched Ingrid wage war between her desire to live freely and her regret over leaving her parents behind. She watches now, too, as Ingrid sighs something heavy and defeated, collapsing back into the couch cushions. 

"I'm sorry." Dorothea winds her arms around Ingrid, pulling her close. She presses a gentle kiss to her lips, pleading and chaste, but Ingrid has already forgiven her without it, letting Dorothea lean them back against the pillows tucked into the armest. They fall into the plush and each other's arms with both blankets still thrown haphazardly over their legs. Ingrid curls her arms around Dorothea's waist, burrowing into the other girl's shoulder so that Dorothea can rest her chin atop Ingrid's head.

"I know how you feel about them," Dorothea murmurs. "You really are too sweet, my Ingrid, diligent and dedicated to a fault. You love like the _ sun_," she giggles, a dreamy, almost musical tone to the way she speaks, "warm and always there, even when you're far away or when it looks like you aren't. Even for people who are hopeless—like me—or unfair—like your parents—you never stop loving. It's not right that that man—your own _ father_—can't see that."

Ingrid doesn't know how to respond to that, never one for words in the effortless way Dorothea is, so she tightens her arms around the other girl instead, sniffling softly into her shoulder. The quiet sound doesn't go unheard, and Dorothea's breath catches at the realization, hands rushing to brush soothingly through her hair.

"I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Ingrid blurts, muffled into the soft cotton of Dorothea's shirt. "It's okay, Dorothea." She turns her head slightly, cheek pillowed against the flat of her girlfriend's shoulder, so she can speak more clearly. "You always say the sweetest things."

Dorothea exhales a soft laugh, lips curling into a relieved smile.

"I mean them all. About you, _ and _ about your parents. When you grow up without them, passed from foster family to foster family, you see a lot of things. Eventually, you end up thinking about what parents _ should _be."

Dorothea pauses, lips pursed and a faraway haze to her sea green eyes. It's not an expression Ingrid sees often on her, far too ruefully nostalgic for the brunette's taste, so she nudges her forehead gently against Dorothea's chin, shaking her from her thoughts. When their eyes meet, Dorothea's lips pull up into a small smile.

"Parents should care about their kids," she says, simple and resolute. "That includes wanting them to be happy living the life they want. If they can't do that one _ simple _thing, then they aren't parents." 

Verdant green eyes flicker quizzically upward, catching Dorothea's own. Smiling wryly, Dorothea shrugs.

"That's the thing no one tells you." 

Dorothea leans her head atop Ingrid's own, quiet in the ensuing pause. Their heater runs quietly in the background, but the gentle hum of it is white noise compared to the rustle of Dorothea's cheek against the wild mess of her girlfriend's hair. She hums a soft note of content, arms tightening ever so slightly as Ingrid hears her breathe in deeply. They share the same shampoo, something opalescent and pink and scented like the potted peonies that Ashe had gifted them last Christmas, but Dorothea always claims it smells better on Ingrid, nose always buried in the graceless tumble of her short hair. 

"What?" Ingrid hums inquisitively, bumping the top of her head gently against Dorothea's chin.

"That you get a choice. Your family doesn't have to be the people who refuse to accept you, Ingrid. You can call other people your family: Sylvain, Felix, Dimitri—"

"And you?"

Dorothea giggles softly, a sound that she smothers against the crown of Ingrid's head. 

"I _ was _ hoping you'd say that, if only so I wouldn't have to."

Ingrid lets out a quiet chuckle of her own, shifting her posture a little straighter in Dorothea's hold. Hooking her chin over the other girl's shoulder, she presses her nose into the silk of Dorothea's hair, feeling ensconced in the soothingly sweet scent of peonies and the steady weight of arms holding her like she is something _ worth _holding onto—an anchor in times of tempestuous doubt and float when the world starts to weigh too heavy for one lonely set of shoulders to bear. 

One thing Ingrid loves about Dorothea is how she always holds her closely and tight, like she is the only thing Dorothea has never lost faith in.

"It doesn't matter who says it," she rolls her eyes. Dorothea won't be able to see it with Ingrid's face pressed so snugly against her neck, but even Ingrid can hear the playful exasperation that lifts the tail end of her words, feathering them out into something breathy and immeasurably fond. "It only matters that it's true. I know what you mean, and that you mean it. I _ chose _Sylvain, Dimitri, and Felix—and now they're like brothers to me. And choosing you..." She tightens her arms around Dorothea, nosing insistently against the warmth of her neck

"I do hope I'm not like a brother to you," Dorothea titters. Ingrid snorts, jostling her girlfriend gently in response.

"You know you're not," she chastises, resting her head fully atop Dorothea's shoulders. Dorothea shifts to lean them further back against the pillows piled over the armrest, sinking them further into the warmth of their blankets and one another. It gets harder to keep her eyes open after that, but she blinks rebelliously against the heavy sensation anyway, trying to find the right words to capture exactly what swells in her chest at the thought of Dorothea. 

Ingrid has never considered herself much of a poet, but there's something in the hazy warmth that envelops them now—in their arms and tangled legs, in the buzz of their heater and the worn softness of their fleece blankets and the perfect stillness of it all—that makes her wish that she was. It makes her wish she could translate this exact moment into words spoken only for her lover's ears, spinning an endless everything into the prettiest songs she's ever heard.

She's not Dorothea, though, and poetry will never be her strong suit. Still, she presses her eyes shut and leans into her girlfriend's shoulder. 

"You're... family," she tells her, simple and honest. Maybe her penchant for exactly that is what makes her such a failure at poetry, but they are virtues she has grown to value. She has never been shy in giving either generously, and Dorothea—in all her strength and fire and endless adoration—is the last person she would give anything less than everything she believes in. "Not just in a way that's part of it. In a way that completes it, that makes it whole. That makes _ me _ whole."

The catch in Dorothea's breath is not held back, rustling the hairs atop Ingrid's head as she gasps.

"_My Ingrid_," she hums, lips pressed against her temple as she sighs sweetly against it. "I hope you know how much I love you."

"Of course I do." She smiles dumbly into Dorothea's shoulder, cheek pillowed against the gentle curve of it. "I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> if you like sylvix and/or platonic sylvain+dimitri, please consider checking out the other fics in this series ^^
> 
> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/panntherism), too!


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